


Circle Completing the Square

by jjtaylor



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 01:47:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjtaylor/pseuds/jjtaylor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s nothing wrong with needing to be told what to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circle Completing the Square

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the first season. Thanks to ataratah and tuesdaysgone for beta.

“Mr. Reese, we have work to do,” Harold says when John answers the phone. His breathing is faster than normal and Harold could check the cameras but he knows John has just been on a run. He can practically hear the swish of the cheap track pants he's seen John wear.

“You got a number?”

“And a very interesting one at that.”

“I'll bring breakfast,” John says before he hangs up.

It's another one of their rituals. He likes to think he indulges John in this, but he enjoys the metaphor of beginning their work with a shared meal.

“So whose number is up, Mr. Finch?” John says, dropping a white wax paper bag on Harold's desk next to a cardboard cup that is steaming slightly. It smells like hot chocolate.

“Megan Marks. Age 23, graduate student in sociocultural anthropology.”

“So unlikely she's the assailant, unless she's found some artifact of high value.”

“It might be something more mundane than that. Megan's girlfriend just came into a substantial sum of money.” Harold opens the lid of his cup and takes a sip – Occam's razor. If his tea smells like hot chocolate, it is probably hot chocolate. “This is not tea.”

“It's tradition to have hot chocolate with pain au chocolat.”

“Perhaps if I were an elementary student in Paris,” Harold says, but when John opens the bag, Harold takes out a buttery, flaky pastry wrapped around dark chocolate and takes a bite.

“Tell me about Megan's girlfriend.”

“Jóhanna Jóhannsdóttir , heiress to the Jóhann Steinsson fortune.”

“Geothermal energy, I thought it was a shared national resource.”

“The energy, yes, the equipment to collect and process it, no.”

“So what do you think, that Megan has some sort of angle?”

“I said mundane.” Harold sips from his hot chocolate, and though it's sweet, it's rich. When he looks up, John is watching him, and when he sets his drink down, John is looking at the data on Megan.

“How will you proceed, Mr. Reese?”

John spins Harold's chair around, and Harold barely has a moment to protest before John is dropping to crouch on his heels, leaning in, Harold's knees pressing against John's stomach and his hands on Harold's forearms on the chair arms. Harold can't tell if John is holding him in place or holding on.

Harold's eyes track everything about John's face, his posture, and Harold would normally flag this as a threat except for the way John's eyes are soft and he's staring at Harold's mouth. John is waiting for something from Harold, and Harold has a fairly good idea exactly what that is, but he has to be careful, because so much hinges on if John realizes what it is he's waiting for. 

“You tell me,” John says, and that’s a very, very important piece of evidence.

“I might suggest sitting in on of Megan's classes,” Harold says, sitting back in his chair enough to regain some sense of composure with John looming over him. “And learning some Icelandic.”

Harold prides himself on appearing seemingly unaffected, but his pain au chocolat tastes different this time when he licks the flakes of pastry from his lips.

 

“What have you got for me, Finch?” John's question is innocent, but it stirs Harold in a way he's been pushing against, pushing away since he started watching Mr. Reese – since he came to think of him as John. John is very easy to read in this regard – in his need for direction - and Harold has stepped very easily into that role as they complete their missions, as they work together. But the more the spaces between John's life and their work begin to close up, loose knots tying themselves tighter, the more Harold finds that he wants to instruct John with no goal at all.

Harold doesn't like guns and has no interest in walking around with a loaded one in his hand. When he thinks of how to answer John's question, he is not thinking about weapons. He is thinking about questions needing answers, a compass needle needing a direction to point, a magnetic pull. A certainty.

“There's a 24-hour diner, two blocks east, I believe you might find something worth watching there.” It's the diner Harold has tracked their number to. Megan Marks, she always uses her debit card for her meal and gets the waitress to break protocol and give her cash back. Harold adds, “Order the meatloaf, Mr. Reese. And be sure to eat it.”

It doesn't have anything to do with the case. The meatloaf is unconnected. But Harold knows it's of particularly high quality, and John is probably hungry, and he should eat.

“On my way,” John says, never questioning any part of it, like all instructions from Harold are of equal weight.

 

John tails Megan for the entire day, and has little to report until he breaks into her room.

“Finch, I think Megan is in some trouble.”

“Indeed, that's why we're watching her, Mr. Reese.”

“No, I mean, the kind of trouble where she has an arsenal in her dorm room.”

“Where is she now?”

“Having a meeting in the student union with three poorly disguised thugs. They're having coffee. And they're speaking Danish.”

“Do you speak Danish, Mr. Reese?”

“I certainly recognize the words for ‘blackmailing’ and ‘heiress.’”

It's a shame; the betrayal cases are always so much harder on both of them. Finch feels for John and his surprising romantic soft spot, but he doesn't look too closely lest he see his own very similar soft spots. Saving one half of a couple in cases like this inevitably ends with bringing to light a failed romance, and somehow it colors the whole endeavor, even if they aren't the ones responsible for breaking them up.

“Jóhanna's just come in,” John says.

“Is she in immediate danger?”

“No,” John says, though the pause is long. “She's ignoring the men. She's seen them before. She's kissing her girlfriend.”

“I'm sure you can find a way to interrupt - "

“No,” John says, quickly this time. “Let them pretend a little longer.”

Harold sees with clarity everything John's been waiting for balanced in that one sentence. John needs. And Harold can provide.

“Kiss me, Mr. Reese.”

There's no response, and Harold pulls up a camera to show John's profile, but John's usual staid expression reveals no more than his silence. “What?” he finally manages, and Harold is almost disappointed.

“I believe I was perfectly clear.”

“What are you trying to do, Harold?” John scans for sight lines, then cameras. He always seems to choose which one he looks up to with careful consideration. It doesn't matter, because the Machine is behind them all.

“I am not trying to do anything. I am telling you to kiss me.”

John lets out a frustrated growl. “When?”

“I will leave that to your discretion. But don't wait too long, Mr. Reese, or it might seem like you've chosen not to heed my instructions.”

And with that, Harold signs off, but he still watches, and if John is only saying Harold's name and pursing his lips on the last syllable, it looks quite a lot like a kiss to the empty air.

 

Harold knows enough Icelandic to convince Jóhanna that he spent time in Iceland as an ex-pat; he keeps an eye on her while John tails Megan since John has yet to master the ability to be in two places at once. Harold tries to get information on Megan and why she might have undesirable associates and an excess of weaponry, but as so often happens with this business, it's just enough rope to hang himself with. John finds out about ten seconds after Harold does that Jóhanna is attempting to extort information from her father's business associates.

“It appears I've made an error in judgment, Mr. Reese,” Harold says over the line. He's tied to the chair by his hands and his feet, but none of the Icelandic dignitaries seem to notice him seemingly talking to himself, as they're too busy being cursed out by Jóhanna in their mother tongue. Harold's Icelandic vocabulary has increased exponentially. “Are you watching Megan?”

“She's studying right now. She's very studious. You need to help me find the room, Finch.”

“Down the stairs, right at the second door, there's a false door that opens in, step inside and close it, and you'll see the second door.”

“Stairs, right, false door,” John says, each word paced with his completing the actions. “I don't see the second door.”

“Touch the wall.”

“Which wall?” There's no need for John to sound so petulant. It really is a clever hiding place; Jóhanna seems to have a real gift for planning, even if it's in the service of malice.

“The wall where the door ought to be, it's probably a recessed handle or a - "

Harold hears the click and sees the slightest movement in the shadows as John takes in the situation and plans Harold's extraction.

“Do you need additional directions?” Harold asks.

“You do seem to enjoy giving me directions,” John says.

“I do, Mr. Reese.”

And then John begins to take apart the room with his fists. Jóhanna manages to get away, or rather, John lets her get away. Harold can't tell if it's because John's too busy checking him for injuries, or if he's simply too disappointed in both young women to muster the effort for a chase.

 

Finch follows his instinct to regroup – to pull John back to the library and recheck the data after a close call, but all the data has given them so far is a Gordian knot, and short of kidnapping both of the young women and locking them in a room together to find out what the other one knows.... John's suggested that approach twice now.

John looks broken up as he stares at their young couples' faces taped side by side, and their portraits surrounded by foreign thugs and dignitaries.

“Finch, if Megan is working with Jóhanna, why didn’t we get Jóhanna's number?”

“Maybe Megan isn't working with her.”

“So the arsenal would be for - "

“Cornering Jóhanna after her successful extortion and extorting something from her? It's possible that their actions are misunderstood from the outside. Ours certainly would be.”

“Are you calling us an odd couple, Harold?”

“Perhaps Detective Fusco's inquiries with the consulate will yield some answers.”

John simply turns and wanders off into the stacks.

After arguing with himself whether to follow or leave John alone, he chooses what he knows to be the only answer in the first place. He finds John browsing in the three hundreds. Sociology. A thin book with a green cloth cover.

“Hear something in that anthropology class that piqued your interest? You should read more fiction,” Harold says. John is not actually looking for something to read, but when Harold turns to take the stairs, John follows him. “What kind of story would you like to read?”

“I don't usually read anything unless you tell me to.”

“There's nothing wrong with needing to be told what to do, Mr. Reese.”

John moves swiftly, stepping into Harold's space. The kiss is hardly platonic, but full of restraint. John's lips are barely parted against Harold's, but it does go on for much longer than Harold would have predicted. John pulls back, rocks back on his heels, and tongues his bottom lip. That gesture alone, the evidence of pleasure, sends more heat to Harold's face than the kiss.

The stare at one another, and Harold is the first to break their gaze. He scans the shelves for a moment, takes down a collection of short stories by Stephen Crane. “Read two of these and then get some sleep.”

“Here?”

Harold wants to say yes; he wants to watch John sleep, he wants to watch John read in person, track his eye movements across the page, watch the corners of his mouth tighten and relax. He wants John on his knees in front of him, wants to direct John to hold his breath, when to exhale. The force of his want is crushing him, and it's frightening, and Harold can't let it show.

“I will see you tomorrow. Sleep well, Mr. Reese.”

It sounds more like a command than a wish, but it's what Harold desires all the same.

 

Harold watches John confront Megan through the campus' closed circuit cameras. Megan punches him and calls the campus police. Harold catches the call that Jóhanna makes sending hit men after John, and John comes back to the library, despondent and rubbing the bruise on his jaw.

“Megan seems to have an unlikely skill at hand to hand combat,” Harold says and gets no response.

“Mr. Reese, did you hear me?”

“Sorry,” John says, though he's still staring at the bank transfer as if he can manipulate the data with his mind, the facts that implicate both women and neither of them and explain absolutely nothing.

“There is nothing we can do until the recipient of the money attempts to make contact, and Detective Fusco provided some intriguing information about the arrival of Mr. Jóhann Steinsson from Reykjavik tomorrow morning.”

“I'd trust the intel more if it had come from Carter.”

“And until she starts answering your calls, we will have to make do.”

“I need to do something, Finch.” John slams his fists into his thighs.

Harold knows exactly what to do. He waits several beats before he says, “Kiss me again, Mr. Reese.”

John turns around quickly, wide-eyed and completely focused on Harold.

Harold stands, and beckons John closer. John steps into his space, awaiting instructions.

“Kiss me like you're trying to convince me,” Harold says.

“Convince you of what?” John says. He touches Harold's shoulders, like he's grounding himself with the touch.

“To let you keep going.”

There's no hesitation, not like last time. And Harold finds that John can be very convincing. John's hands cup Harold's face but the kiss isn't tender. It's an argument, it's full of proof and enticements, and Harold finds himself gripping John's arms, letting the kiss go on longer than he ever would have needed to hear John's persuasion for himself.

“Did that convince you?” John whispers, pulling back, just enough to look at Harold. Harold's hands are bunched in John's jacket and he lets go, and smooths down the folds. When he looks back up into John's face, John looks as though he might let Harold get away with not answering the question.

“I am impressed by the substance of your argument, Mr. Reese,” Harold says. When he says, “Please elaborate,” John's eyes snap back to his face. He's waiting. Waiting for Harold to give the word. “Start with taking off my jacket.”

John does, slides his hands under the lapels and slips it off Harold's shoulders. John takes the jacket, folds it in half, drapes it over the chair, and then kisses Harold again. Harold likes that John doesn't need to be walked through everything, that he makes the right connections on his own. John loosens the knot on Harold's tie, and Harold is glad John was paying attention to how his last instructions began with 'start.'

The silk of his tie slips out from his collar with John's steady tug, and John drapes it over Harold's jacket. He unbuttons the top button of his shirt, then the second.

“What do you want?” John says, and it's not an empty question. John really wants to know what Harold wants him to do. Harold can think of several broad instructions, but instead goes with the very specific.

“Show me the kind of marks you can make,” Harold says, and he's barely finished the sentence when John's mouth is on his neck, sucking hard. Harold gasps when he feels the blood vessels burst, and when John licks the bruised spot, Harold shudders. John makes several more marks, alternately sucking and using his teeth. Harold is hard, and gaining on distractedly so, thinking of pushing his hips against John's without words, or taking himself out and stroking in time with each pass of John's tongue over a hickey.

“Harold,” John breathes into his ear, and Harold manages not to startle too badly at the name, and the personal implications. This is just John, pushing for more and more information. He can't help it, and Harold wouldn't really want him to stop because it would mean John's interest, his commitment, was flagging.

“Need more instructions, Mr. Reese?” Harold says, and feels the soft exhale of John's response against his ear.

“I need to know what this is.”

“No, you don't,” Harold says. John is quiet, struggling with himself. He ducks his head down to Harold's neck, licks an unbruised spot, resumes his quiet questioning stance with his mouth against Harold's ear, all of this a secret, even between them.

“I need,” John says, and maybe he'll stop there, maybe that's it. Perhaps all that is happening now is subsumed in John's need. “I need you to tell me this is something I can have.”

“I believe the evidence would suggest it is something you already do have, no subjunctive necessary.”

“Harold, I don't need a language lesson.”

“No, you need to finish undressing me.”

John groans into Harold's neck. “Can I - "

“I've already said yes,” Harold says sternly.

John kisses him with quiet abandon and unbuttons the rest of Harold's shirt, not too quickly, but slow compared to his kisses, which have gone deep and hot and are pushing Harold's glasses askew.

“Tell me, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, as John deftly unbuttons his cufflinks, sets them down next to the computer, and slips Harold's shirt off over each wrist. “How far do you think I'll let you go?”

John's hands tighten around Harold's forearms, and relax.

“Depends on how generous you're feeling, I suppose,” John says, as he unbuckles Harold's belt, and even though he doesn't have to, pulls it out of Harold's pants before starting to unfasten them, as though John won't do even undressing half-way.

“Generosity has nothing to do with it,” Harold says.

John bends and kisses Harold's stomach, inhaling deeply along the line of Harold's waist, the skin just above his pants. 

“Tell me I can have it,” John says.

“I already - “

“Tell me again,” John says. Harold grabs him, fingers tight on the back of his neck. John is much stronger than he is and ought to be able to effortlessly take control, but he doesn't. He lets Harold manhandle him, shove him toward the chair and down into it, and tower over him, his fingers pressing into the taut muscle.

“Listen to me, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, and lets himself loom over John, who sits up in the chair, leaning back to look up at Harold. “I do not appreciate your attempts to quantify me.”

They're staring, and John nods his understanding, but the question still burns in his eyes. The demand.

He kisses John roughly, claiming, his arms braced on the edge of the chair. He's surrounding John. He finds himself thinking in John's terms. A sustained assault. Waiting for surrender.

“Finch, please,” John murmurs, between vicious kisses. “Please.”

“I can see that we won't get very far without this struggle coming up again unless I indulge your request, but it is an indulgence, at my whim.” John nods again. “Ask your question... though do try not to act as though you're interviewing a suspect when you ask it.”

“I want you to tell me how much. So I'll know.”

How much. It's such an odd way of phrasing it that Harold has to unpack it. Not how far, or in what way, but – it's an emotional query, the weight of which settles on Harold quite suddenly, tightening in his lungs, making him take slow, drawn out inhalations through his nose, holding them for a count, letting them out. Time slows and speeds up.

John doesn't want Harold and need this – he wants this and needs Harold. The inversion bears almost no resemblance to its opposite.

John's genuine interest in him beyond that of a voice in his ear, the magnet pulling the compass needle, was not a variable he had accounted for, or if he had, he had discarded it too early as - irrelevant. He has the sudden image of Nathan laughing at him as he looks over his shoulder at the data stream.

“Oh, John,” Harold says, and he touches John's face, fingers trailing along his flushed cheek, the stubble along his jaw. He still doesn't get it, and Harold thinks it's not entirely John's fault. They were proceeding under different assumptions, and the same actions would have led to different ends.

John's eyes flutter closed. He swallows hard.

Harold strokes his thumb over John's lips. “This position isn't comfortable for me. Stand up.” Harold steps back to give John the space to stand. John looks wary.

Harold kisses him again, a gentle kiss, reminiscent of their first. Full of restraint.

“Goodnight, Mr. Reese,” Harold says. John looks away, anywhere but at him. “I said goodnight, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, taking John's hand and squeezing his fingers.

“Goodnight,” John says. After a moment, John squeezes back, and then turns and leaves.

 

There's a piece of the puzzle they're missing, or several pieces. Megan, seemingly devoted to her girlfriend and keeping weapons in her closet, and Jóhanna, on the surface a proud international student who hides a cunning web of extorting political secrets.

Megan looks out of place with the thugs, Jóhanna at home with the dignitaries, and Harold's watching the data transfer and he knows the moment the money goes through the Central Bank of Iceland that they're going to find the missing piece for good or ill.

“Mr. Reese, you need to get over there. I think whatever siege Megan is preparing for is in play.”

“Over where, Finch? Which one of them am I protecting?”

“Both of them, Mr. Reese.”

 

Jóhann Steinsson's flight is scheduled to arrive at 5:54 AM. Megan has packed up her arsenal into a military-issue duffel bag and taken a cab to the airport. Jóhanna is being escorted to meet her father by the cadre of dignitaries she had been so effusively shouting at earlier.

“Finch, I don't understand - “ John says. The sentence cuts off in John getting punched again, and then gunfire.

“Mr. Reese - “ Harold says but then John's microphone picks up another voice.

“You know how to shoot a gun?” Megan asks, and Harold hears John laugh.

“She's her body guard,” John says. “Megan is Jóhanna's body guard. That's why the arsenal.”

“Who is she shooting at?” Harold demands.

“They're shooting at us, actually,” John says, and then there's more gunfire.

INTERPOL is on the scene before Jóhann Steinsson's plane touches the ground, and every single one of the dignitaries Jóhanna had so thoroughly scolded get escorted by two sinister looking agents whose radio transmissions convince Harold they've just witnessed Iceland's version of MI6.

“It was a sting. Megan and Jóhanna ran their own sting,” John says. He seems pleased, and seems to have forgiven Megan her punches. “Did they even need our help all?”

“We can only assume they did,” Harold says. John's laughing again and Harold's not sure if he knows which part John finds the most amusing. 

 

Harold fusses around the library for the rest of the morning while John ties up business with the Icelandic heiress and her bodyguard-girlfriend, and he does not examine the similarities. He does not need any more data.

Instead of waiting to see when John will show up at the library, Harold follows John to his apartment. John notices his tail immediately and they fall into step as John reaches for his keys.

“What brings you to my place, Finch?” John asks. He's radiating tension.

“I admit I may have been proceeding with incomplete data,” Harold says as John unlocks the door and follows him in. “Assessing the conclusions I had jumped to did not reflect well on me.”

“Finch - "

“I had falsely concluded that what you needed was what I could offer, rather than what you wanted might be - "

It was Harold's turn to be unable to complete the sentiment.

“You,” John says. “Was I - "

“Don't ask if you were wrong, Mr. Reese. No, you were not wrong. Neither of us was wrong. In fact, we were both right, we were - "

“Harold,” John says again, his hand on Harold's elbow, and with grace John tugs him down to sit on the couch, kneels between Harold's legs and kisses him until Harold is sliding down along the length of the couch, and John is closer and closer.

“Yes, Mr. Reese,” Harold says. “Yes.”

It turns out that having John suck on two-day-old hickeys is actually something that makes Harold cry out so loudly he immediately tries to muffle the sounds against John's shoulder. John laughs and smooths his hands over Harold's back, untucks his shirt tails and slips his hand against the skin there.

“Can I undress you?” There's just the slightest hesitance.

“Please do,” Harold says.

John presses kisses to the insides of Harold's elbows, to the round curve of his shoulder, to the line of his waist just above his hips.

“Mr. Reese,” Harold says, his voice halting, losing composure and enjoying it. “I do hope you realize what you're doing to me with your mouth.”

“I do realize,” John says, echoing Harold. “I have plans to do a lot more to you with my mouth.”

Harold lets his head fall back against the arm of the couch. “Proceed.”

John teases him until Harold is gasping, hips rocking toward John at the slightest touch. Harold would be indignant, but he doesn't give any instructions otherwise.

“Mr. Reese, if you would please - " is all he has to say before John is taking Harold's cock in his mouth, his fingers wrapping around the base, and sucking so enthusiastically that Harold can't help the sounds he makes, the encouragement, the thrill, overlain with knowing how much they both want this, how close he is to John in this moment -

Harold presses his heels down into the couch, around John, lets his hips cant up – John moans, and oh, god, Harold can't resist that, he can't, and he pushes up harder into John's mouth. John moans again, takes him deeper.

“You like this, Mr. Reese?” Harold says, though his voice is noticeably unsteady and he has to take several deep breathes before continuing. “I like it, too.”

The confession, even though it's obvious to both of them, drives up the intensity.

Harold has no doubt that John will swallow, and not pull back, and so he doesn't bother to warn, even though his imminent climax is telegraphed in the way his whole body is going tight, in the soft exclamations he can't mute. When Harold comes, he feels John swallow around him and the pleasure, the sensation, is so intense that for several moments longer than he'd like to admit, Harold has no thoughts at all.

John doesn't apologize for kissing Harold right after he's blown him, and Harold loves that, kisses deeper and hotter because of it – John crawls up over Harold and pressing their mouths together, licking into Harold's slack mouth, raises himself up enough to unbutton his shirt; it's still tight at the cuffs, but hanging open. Harold lets his hands explore John's muscled torso, the line of ribs, and then he cups John's erection through his pants and John makes a delightful, needy sound that Harold immediately longs to recreate. He scratches his nails over the material stretched over John's cock.

“Oh,” John says with each pass of Harold's fingers and he's not even touching enough of John's skin yet.

“Unfasten your pants,” Harold says, and John kneels to do so. “Leave them on, just open them. Now kiss me again.”

While John is kissing him, Harold slides his open palm across John's stomach, his fingers under the elastic, and though John must be tense with waiting, with Harold's hand almost there, he kisses like it's the only thing that matters, the only thing that's happening. When Harold wraps his hand around John's cock and squeezes, John bites Harold's bottom lip and they breathe together, John holding on with his teeth, Harold with his hand squeezing tight around John's cock. John lets go of his hold on Harold's lower lip when Harold rubs the pad of this thumb over the head of John's cock, pressing in just slightly at the slit.

“Are you going to come for me, Mr. Reese?” Harold says. John shudders.

“No more questions,” John murmurs.

“I quite agree,” Harold says. “Come in my hand, Mr. Reese.” John shudders hard, sucks on Harold's neck just below his ear, and comes with a contented sigh, his cock spilling and smearing in Harold's hand and on both their stomachs.

John's weight doesn't press against Harold for very long at all, but he doesn't move from the couch, fastening his pants and lifting Harold's feet as he sits down, placing them back across his knees.

“Want something to eat?” John says. He rubs the arches of Harold's feet, confidently enough not to be ticklish.

“I would have to put my pants back on for a meal,” Harold says. He starts to sit up, reaches for his glasses.

“Not necessarily,” John says. He grins like he means it, and Harold imagines them eating Chinese just like this, his spent cock tucked up against his pelvis, his undershirt smeared with John's come.

“Let's not be ridiculous, Mr. Reese,” Harold says and laughs, despite knowing it will ruin his feint.

“No, never that, Mr. Finch.”

“What would you like to order?”

“You tell me,” John says, and yes, that will do very nicely.


End file.
